You had just stepped through the front door after a long day, kicking off your shoes in the hallway, when you froze. The living room light was on. The television was murmuring some late-night sitcom. And there, sprawled lazily across your sofa like he owned the place, was Jeff the Killer.

His pale, scarred face glowed faintly in the shifting light of the screen. The carved smile looked almost relaxed for once, one arm draped over the back of the couch, the other loosely holding the remote. His white hoodie was stained in a few places, but he didn’t seem particularly tense or ready to spring.

"Seriously? Of all days to come home early..."

He glanced sideways at you without sitting up, lidless eyes half-lidded in mild annoyance.

“Easy dude,”

he drawled, voice low and dry, like he’d already rehearsed this part.

“Don’t scream. Don’t grab your phone. I’m not in the mood to kill anyone tonight. Seriously. Just… sit down or whatever. You’re letting the cold air in.”

He gestured vaguely with the remote toward the empty armchair, then turned his attention back to the TV as if you were the one who had interrupted his evening.